


Marta's 2008 Birthday Prezzies

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: General, Multi-Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2008-07-05
Packaged: 2018-03-23 13:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3770387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'd like gapfillers involving lesser known races - the Dunlanders! the Avari! the Easterlings! or whatever strikes your fancy - especially if it is tied to some sort of canonical event or reference. Cross-cultural momens are fine, but so are moments involving just them. (I have a special interest in the men and dwarves of Esgaroth/Dale/Erebor, so if you'd like to write a drabble about them, that always goes over well.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To follow a wizard - Nath

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_'Yet there are many that cry in the Dunland tongue,' said Gamling. 'I know that tongue. It is an ancient speech of men, and once was spoken in many western valleys of the Mark. Hark! They hate us, and they are glad; for our doom seems certain to them. 'The king the king!' they cry. 'We will take their king. Death to the Forgoil! Death to the Strawheads! Death to the robbers of the North!' Such names they have for us. Not in half a thousand years have they forgotten their grievance that the lords of Gondor gave the Mark to Eorl the Young and made alliance with him. That old hatred Saruman has inflamed._ – Helm's Deep, chapter 7, book III, The Two Towers 

\---

Hazad looked around curiously. He had not been inside the wizard's stronghold before, only heard the tales of how there was seam nor stone to be seen in its black walls. He wondered if he dared touch the wall to find out if it felt as smooth as it looked, but it might be better not to draw attention to himself. 

The wizard had sent messengers to all villages in this part of the mountains, and nearly all sent someone to the stronghold in response. It would be unwise to antagonise _this_ neighbour. Also, some men from villages further south had taken service with the wizard, and from what they told, it appeared he was generous enough to those who served him well. 

"Welcome, my neighbours," a soft voice suddenly spoke in their own tongue, calling Hazad from his musings. He had not even heard their host's approach, but there he stood, the wizard; an old man, yet proud and unbent. Hazad suspected there was a lot more to this greybeard than could be seen, and he swallowed against the sudden fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. Then the wizard caught his eye and he felt as if his innermost thoughts were laid bare. 

"You need not fear, my friend," the wizard addressed him in a kindly voice, and he knew there was indeed no reason to fear this man. It was clear he had their interest at heart. "What is your name?"

"Hazad," he replied. 

"Hazad, I have called you, and all these who have come here with you," and he made a gesture to include the others, "to help you seek redress for your old grievances against the Horsemasters. Did they not once accept the lands that were yours from those whose ancestors had stolen them from you? And is not he who knowingly takes stolen goods as bad as the thief himself?" 

All nodded in unison. That was their oldest claim against the filthy Strawheads, and all conflicts between them since those days resulted from that injustice. Yes, Hazad thought, it was high time that they retook what was theirs. 

"What must we do, lord?" someone asked, his voice sounding harsh in the silent hall. 

As Hazad turned his head to see who it was that spoke, the wizard no longer held his gaze and he felt a brief twinge of doubt, but then the old man spoke again, and he saw once more what they had to do. 

"You must gather an army of all those among you who can bear arms, and return here before the next full moon. And then, my friends, we will march on the Horsemasters, so that all our purposes may be fulfilled. For I, too, have claims against them, and would seek justice." He appeared saddened and aggrieved now, an old man treated harshly by a cruel world, and Hazad felt his anger burn both for the injustices done his own people and the hurts done their benefactor. 

"Yes! We will fight for you!" Hazad joined in the calls from his fellow village elders. They would at long last take back the lands the Westmen had first taken for themselves and later given to the Strawheads. They would return to their villages and call the men to arms, and then they would march south and regain the honour of their longfathers. At last, the time for revenge had come, and the day would be theirs. 

\---

A/N: The name Hazad is taken from HoME 12, ch. XVII, Tal-Elmar. 


	2. From the Grey Twilight - by Imhiriel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like gapfillers involving lesser known races - the Dunlanders! the Avari! the Easterlings! or whatever strikes your fancy - especially if it is tied to some sort of canonical event or reference. Cross-cultural momens are fine, but so are moments involving just them. (I have a special interest in the men and dwarves of Esgaroth/Dale/Erebor, so if you'd like to write a drabble about them, that always goes over well.)

At first we laughed at his curse, judging it no more than impotent fury of one thwarted. What power the curse of a man - even be he prince of great Númenor - against Sauron's might?  
  
Not until too late did we recognise the first workings of the curse when Isildur's wrath drove us to hide in secret places in the mountains.  
  
Now we are called the Sleepless Dead, dread and terror of the land once ours, restless as prophesied.  
  
We wait for the one foretold elsewhere to whom we would fulfil our oath, and thus at last earn our eternal peace.  


~*~  


A/N:  
\- Title is from Malbeth the Seer's prophecy in RotK, The Passing of the Grey Company  
\- "And they fled before the wrath of Isildur [...] and they hid themselves in secret places in the mountains..." (ibid.)  


~*~

Imhiriel 


	3. A New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like gapfillers involving lesser known races - the Dunlanders! the Avari! the Easterlings! or whatever strikes your fancy - especially if it is tied to some sort of canonical event or reference. Cross-cultural momens are fine, but so are moments involving just them. (I have a special interest in the men and dwarves of Esgaroth/Dale/Erebor, so if you'd like to write a drabble about them, that always goes over well.)

_For Marta for her birthday--eight drabbles.  Thanks to RiverOtter for the beta._

A New Life 

            Aragorn first noted the young warrior among the group of Easterlings attacking from a position to the east of the slag hill on which his troupes stood.  He was taller than many of his fellows, and his hair was far lighter than was true of most of the Rhûnim, as was true also of his mustache.  He was determined, though; that Aragorn had to admit as he saw three of his kinsmen and two Rohirrim turn to face this newest threat. 

            He put the young warrior from his mind--a great troll and two orcs were advancing on him, after all. 

 ******* 

            The young warrior woke, apparently inside an enclosure of some sort.  Someone was carefully wiping his forehead with a damp cloth.  "So," a voice said in his own tongue, "you come back to us, do you?  Do you think that you could swallow some water, and then perhaps some broth?" 

            He could see nothing--suddenly frightened, he put his hand to his face and found bandages wrapped about his eyes. 

            "Soft now, my son," the voice advised him.  "You lost an eye in the battle, and we seek only to preserve the sight in the other.  It will soon be uncovered." 

 ******* 

            He was settled on a bench while the healer worked at unfastening the bandages about his head.  "We are in a rather dark tent," he was advised.  "We will soon know whether the right eye has followed the left." 

            The last of the cloth strips fell away, and gently a pad was removed from the left, and finally from the right.  He first realized there was a glimmer of light behind him, and the shapes before him resolved in time into the faces of two Men--but they were not Rhûnim! 

            "By the Dark Lord," he whispered.  "I've been taken prisoner!" 

 ******* 

            "They have been very kind to us," whispered the one who lay in the next bed, whose lung had been pierced and yet looked to recover.  "We are treated with courtesy and gentleness--and respect.  Lord Abdurin ordered us all killed, since we were sore wounded; but the folk of the Stonelands would not do so.  Indeed their new captain insisted instead we be given all aid possible, and he labors himself amongst the healers.  Imagine--a warrior who yet is a healer himself.  He has spent much time over you, easing your thrashing when you were yet out of your body." 

 ******* 

            "What would you do?" asked Gondor's new captain, whose name was yet unknown.  "Have you family at home?  A wife?  Children?" 

            He shook his head.  "No--no wife, no children.  None would accept me into their clan, for my father was a slave, one of the Horse-folk west of you." 

            "You fought well." 

            "But I am the son of a slave, and am now half blind." 

            "You have lost the use of one eye, but have use of the other.  You could still do much for your people." 

            He shook his head bitterly.  This one knew little of his people, apparently. 

 ******* 

            He stood at the entrance to their camp; the new King was to come among them, set each on his way.  He watched the tall Man moving amidst his guards, and recognized the healer captain in him.  His mouth fell open. 

            Some of his fellows yet chose to return to Rhûn.  Others chose to accept service to families or on farms within Gondor. 

            "I still have no thoughts as to what I could do with my life, great Lord," he said. 

            The King's small companion stepped forward.  "I know an artisan within the Fourth Circle who would welcome an apprentice." 

 ******* 

            It was difficult work and exacting, learning to blow glass.  But there was a delightful satisfaction in seeing the sand melt, then to see the glowing blob taking shape from the breath of the glassblower, to see colors emerge, swirling in a dizzying manner. 

            "Master Frodo did well to send you to me," Master Celebrion told him with satisfaction.  "You have a good eye and a ready imagination, and are willing to do all you are set to do.  I am well pleased." 

            Arafim smiled.  Trading sword for bellows and metal straw and molten glass had given him great satisfaction. 

******* 

            He entered Rhûn in a caravan sent out from Minas Tirith, and was surprised at how comfortable he felt, how reassuring he found seeing the robed figures he'd ever thought his own--until he'd learned one had ordered his death.  The traders were welcomed and given much honor, and at the first market he set out his wares. 

            A woman lifted up a fine ewer he'd crafted, looking with delight at the colors that swirled through it.  "How lovely!" she said in her own tongue to the boy who'd come with her.  "How much?" she asked in accented Westron. 

            "For you? ..." 


End file.
